I haven’t written anything in a few weeks.
We moved.
I’ve been busy.
Technically, we moved a month ago.
But apparently there is a significant difference between moving your stuff and finding somewhere to PUT your stuff.
We moved from a big house
with a bigger shop
to a smaller house
with a smaller shop.
We brought everything.
Okay.
Not everything.
We downsized.
We were actually quite proud of ourselves.
If we found something and neither of us knew what it was, what it did, or what it might conceivably be used for sometime in the future, we threw it away.
Ruthless.
And if we discovered we owned five of the exact same very useful thing?
We sold two.
Sometimes.
So really, I don’t know what more could reasonably have been expected of us.
It turns out moving to a smaller house is considerably easier if you own less stuff.
We discovered this approximately three weeks too late.
George Carlin once pointed out that everybody else’s stuff is sh*t, while your sh*t is stuff.
I understand this now on a spiritual level.
Because for the past month, Hubby and I have been opening boxes and having conversations like:
“Why do we have this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do we need it?”
“Probably not.”
“Can we throw it away?”
Absolutely not.
It’s our stuff.
And apparently our stuff is very important.
Even the stuff we haven’t seen since 1999.
Even the stuff we forgot we owned.
Even the stuff whose original purpose can no longer be determined by modern science.
So we shuffled stuff.
Stacked stuff.
Reorganized stuff.
Bought things to hold stuff.
And, in a particularly impressive display of human stupidity, moved stuff out of the way so we could make room for other stuff.
But today, I am pleased to announce:
THE BOXES HAVE BEEN SORTED.
Every single box in the house has been opened, examined, judged, and dealt with.
Mostly.
There are, of course, a few boxes clearly marked:
MY STUFF
HIS STUFF
IMPORTANT STUFF
and the always useful:
STUFF WE ARE NOT CURRENTLY PREPARED TO MAKE A DECISION ABOUT.
But those boxes are now semi-neatly organized in a large storage closet.
Behind a closed door.
Which, in my opinion, means they no longer exist.
So I am officially declaring the move OVER.
I am celebrating.
Hubby, apparently, is not.
He still has “boxes to go through” in the shop.
But those are his boxes.
In his shop.
A separate building.
Behind another closed door.
I have decided they don’t exist either.
Downsizing complete.
Welcome to the lake house.
Pull up a chair…
I’ll make the margaritas!
-Pattie
Third Act With Pattie 